


Our Time Is Running Out

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Series: Steter Week 2020 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Alternate Universe - World War II, Ambiguous/Open Ending, And Fight In WW II, Angst, Artist Stiles Stilinski, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hopeful Ending, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: “I haven't even kissed anyone,” he revealed, feeling utterly ridiculous.The stranger cocked an eyebrow. “Do you want to?”Stiles barked out a laugh. “Hell yeah.”~Stiles just wants to be an artist like he used to be. But the war pulls him in. He can't escape. Spending his last night before battle in a bar, he opens up to a stranger who happens to be a werewolf.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Steter Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855330
Comments: 10
Kudos: 110
Collections: Steter Week 2020





	Our Time Is Running Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Steter Week 2020 Day Two (Visual Prompt)

The last thing Stiles painted on a canvas was an hourglass. His time was running out and he could almost feel it trickle through his paint-stained fingers. Time. He couldn’t make it stop. So he imprinted it on paper and stared at it, blinking back angry tears. 

Time. His time.  
  
It was running out. Relentless. Careless.

Stiles didn’t ask for this. No one did. The world was at war and it pulled everyone right into the maelstrom. Soon, so soon, he would face death, with his hands empty and his mind filled with unlived dreams.  
  
“You are so young. You shouldn’t be thinking about death right now,” his Dad had said to him with lines of sorrow around his kind eyes, before he left for the frontlines yet again. His hands were heavy on Stiles’ shoulders. He could feel the weight of them even after his Dad left, jumping on a truck with a group of stone-faced soldiers. He never came back.  
  
The clocks were ticking. Stiles learned how to crawl through mud and how to avoid being torn to shreds by a grenade. He hated the weapon in his hands. He imagined he would trade it for his favourite brush and would paint some flowers into the dirty trenches that were his life now. 

_I haven't even fallen in love yet,_ he mused one night _,_ staring up at a starry uncaring sky.  
  
_Wrong time. Wrong place_ , a spiteful voice in the back of his mind said. _You only have this life. And your time is running out. Out. Out, out, out._

Out. 

Before they left to die in some battle, the younger soldiers took Stiles to a bar. He didn’t want to go. What for? He was a dead man walking, alcohol wouldn't change that. But when he stood there, watching the others dance and flirt with girls in hope for a last good night, he discovered a stranger with a way too handsome face and too blue eyes, sitting on the other side of the bar like he didn’t want to be there either. Everyone else was avoiding him. It was like there was a magic circle around him, shielding him from any interaction. 

Stiles couldn’t help but stare. Something about this man transfixed him. He took a sip of his beer and almost choked on it, when the man stared right back at him, his eyes gleaming too blue for a volatile moment, before he averted them again. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. A werewolf. Oh. So that was why everyone avoided him like the plaque. Although quite a lot of werewolves fought on their side as mercenaries, most people still were either scared or straight out disgusted, calling them monsters and abominations under their breath. 

Stiles' father had taught him to respect every form of life, supernatural or not. And Stiles had always thought that werewolves were pretty cool anyway. 

After grabbing a new bottle of beer, Stiles walked over to the lone man, sitting on the chair opposite him. The stranger arched a brow. “I didn’t ask for company,” he said. 

_Charming_ , Stiles thought. But the stranger’s voice cut right through him. It was like silk. He took another sip of his beer, definitely feeling kinda tipsy by now. And hot. And very scared. “Whatever, man. Just let me ramble for a while, okay? No one wants to listen. They all want to run away and dance.” 

The stranger frowned. But he didn’t look or walk away, so Stiles took the opportunity. He leaned back and let out a heavy sigh. “My Dad is gone. I don’t know if he’s like _gone_ gone, but he always sent letters, and now there’s nothing. I think he’s dead. I think I’m going to be dead soon too. I’m fucking scared. I don’t want to die. And I don’t want to kill anyone. I just want to be an artist like I used to. This sucks. Sometimes I think about running away. But that doesn’t feel right either.” He stopped, feeling breathless. 

“I’m sorry about your father, little one,” the wolf said, and maybe Stiles should take offense being called “little one”, but he didn’t find the strength to care. “I know a little how you feel. I want to be a lawyer like I used to be often enough. I’m constantly fighting now. And I’m good at it. But it’s not what I want.”  
  
Stiles hummed, not sure what to say. He was never good at comforting anyone. Or himself. “I haven't even kissed anyone,” he finally revealed, feeling utterly ridiculous.

The stranger cocked an eyebrow. “Do you want to?” 

Stiles barked out a laugh. He felt a bit warmer. “Hell yeah.”  
  
The wolf smirked. He reached out, his fingers barely brushing Stiles’ hand. When Stiles looked down at the stranger’s hand, he saw the barest hint of dark claws. He swallowed. “What’s your name?” 

“Peter.”  
  
Stiles laughed. Maybe, because he didn’t expect something so … ordinary. “Stiles,” he said and now it was Peter’s turn to laugh. “Really?”  
  
“It isn’t my real name. But no one can pronounce that ridiculous row of letters anyway,” Stiles sighed and made a vague gesture with his hand.  
  
Peter smiled. He exposed a row of perfect white teeth and his eyes sparkled. They really were so blue. Stiles thought he could drown a bit in them. He wouldn’t mind. “Alright, Stiles,” Peter said and it sounded like he tested how the name tasted on his tongue. “Follow me.” 

Stiles did. It was the end of the world. So why not.  
  
They ended up in some dark alleyway and kissed. It was good. Great. Stiles thought he forgot how to breathe. Peter kissed and touched with a certain ferocity. Almost like he was starving. Stiles didn't mind. He wouldn’t have minded dying in Peter’s arms. It would have been so much better than what he thought awaited him in the trenches. 

And he was right. 

* * *

Stiles doesn’t die. Maybe he should have. Because what he wakes up to is hell. There’s no other way to describe it. 

The sky is dark although it’s still day. He blinks up into smoke and tastes ash. He coughs and turns his head to the side. The next moment, he wishes he wouldn’t have, because right beside him lays a young man with wide open unseeing eyes, his face blood-spotted and one of his arms missing. Stiles weakly vomits into the mud. 

He scrambles to get on his feet, looking around and panting heavily. Oh. Oh God. The world is gone. The world is a blank smoking field, scattered with bodies. Stiles sobs. A sharp pain pulls at his hip and he notices he’s bleeding. It’s nothing bad. Only a little flesh wound. He’ll live. He’ll live to fight another day. Ha. He sobs again, edging on sounding hysteric. 

Stiles wipes over his dirty face and then he remembers. Peter. Where’s Peter? He lost him when the grenades rained down. He still remembers seeing Peter raging between the soldiers like a berserker, like a God of war and death, his eyes gleaming and his fangs dripping blood, his claws tearing through flesh so easily. Men backed away from him in horror, falling backwards into the mud.  
  
But where is he now? Where … 

Stiles goes searching. He wades through bloody mud and somehow loses one of his boots, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is finding Peter. They can’t lose each other yet. Not yet, when he still has to know how Peter’s skin feels under his uniform, when he still has to learn about Peter’s dreams and fears and has to tell Peter he wants to be his. Not now. He felt save with Peter sleeping beside him, everyone else far away because they were idiots. He felt happy when he showed Peter his sketches, when Peter called them pretty and Stiles talented, his voice only serious, not teasing like so many others were before. Peter can't be gone now that Stiles thinks this might be what falling in love feels like. It isn't fair.  
  
He sobs and searches, feeling the terror making his throat clench, when he inhales the air and knows what’s in it apart from smoke and fire and blood. The enemy must have known that there were werewolves on their side. An almost transparent lilac cloud floats over the battlefield. It smells sickly sweet. Wolfsbane. 

No. No, no, no. There’s not much place for another thought. Stiles almost falls over a severed leg in the mud and he yelps, catching himself, only to finally discover Peter, laying on the ground and pinned under a body. Stiles hurries to his wolf and pushes the heavy body away. Peter’s face is pale and his eyes closed. Stiles shakes him, whimpering. “Peter,” he says breathlessly. “Peter …” 

Peter groans and opens his eyes. It takes a while until they focus. “Stiles?” 

“I’m here,” Stiles sobs. His eyes wander over Peter’s body and he’s frozen with terror. There are so many wounds and burns. God. The _burns_. It looks like Peter walked right into a fire. His skin is angry red and blistered. It _smells_. Stiles wants to gag. But he tries to smile instead. “You’ll be fine.” 

Peter laughs weakly. It ends in a cough. “You’re a terrible liar, little one.” 

Stiles sniffs. He wishes he could do something. Anything. He’s so useless. “Help!” He calls out. It echoes over the silent field and somewhere, someone cries. That’s it. 

Peter reaches out, his hand cupping Stiles’ face. “Look at me,” he says, his voice strained. 

Stiles obeys. Peter’s eyes focus on his, his breaths evening out. “You’re going to get out of this,” he tells Stiles, his hand still there, feeling rough on Stiles’ skin. “You’re going to survive and you’re … you’re going to be an artist. Promise me.”  
  
Stiles nods and feels the tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. “I promise. But … You’re going to be with me. You're going to be a lawyer, deeply feared by every culprit. I won’t let you leave. Not like this. Not now."

Peter smiles. He opens his mouth and it seems like he wants to say something else, but he can’t. There’s a wet gurgling noise and then, Peter’s hand slips from Stiles’ cheek. Stiles catches it, squeezing it helplessly and watching as Peter’s eyes close and his head lolls to the side. 

Their time is running out, Stiles knows.  
  
Like it has always been. 

The time passes. And it runs out, but it also gifts him something. Hasty footsteps, approaching fast. A healer, jumping into the trench, crouching beside Stiles and reaching out to feel for Peter’s pulse. Stiles watches, too numb to even feel hope. He can only wait. He waits until the time passes, running out and closing in. 

He doesn't know if there's enough sand left in the hourglass. But God, he hopes there is.

**Author's Note:**

> Not my usual ship, but this thing insisted to be written. Relentlessly.
> 
> I always love to hear what you are thinking about the story! ❤
> 
> Say hi on [Tumblr](https://for-the-love-of-wolves.tumblr.com/)  
> :)


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